In Praise of Older Women: The Amorous Recollections of Andras Vajda - Stephen Vizinczey (Author); From Introductory Chapter: TO YOUNG MEN WITHOUT LOVERS This book is addressed to young men and dedicated to older women - and the connection between the two is my proposition. I'm not an expert on sex, but I was a good student of the women I loved, and I'll try to recall those happy and unhappy experiences which, I believe, made a man out of me. I spent my first twenty-three years in Hungary, Austria and Italy and my adventures in growing up differed considerably from the adventures of young men in the New World. Our dreams and opportunities were influenced by dissimilar amorous conventions. I am a European, they are Americans; and what makes for an even greater difference, they are young today, I was young a long time ago. Everything has changed, even the guiding myths. Modern culture - American culture - glorifies the young; on the lost continent of old Europe it was the affair of the young man and his older mistress that had the glamour of perfection. Today young men believe in girls of their own age, convinced that they alone have anything worthwhile to offer; we tended to value continuity and tradition and sought to enrich ourselves with the wisdom and sensibility of the past. And sex was only part of it. We came from large families and were used to getting along with people older than ourselves. When I was a small boy my grandparents, who lived on a farm near Lake Balaton, used to give a lunch party every summer attended by more than two hundred relatives. I remember marvelling how many of us there were, sitting on long benches at long tables in the courtyard, between the house and the plum trees - rows and rows of aunts and uncles, cousins, in-laws, ranging from children to octogenarians. Members of such tribes knew no age barriers. We lived within a hundred miles of each other and we all loved the same songs. The storm of war swept that courtyard clear. The Vajdas, once so close, now live on four continents. We are losing touch, like everybody else. America wasn't devastated by foreign armies, but the leafy courtyards are gone just the same. They are paved over for runways. Families fly apart, and each generation seems to belong to a different period of history. The big houses with room for grandparents, aunts and uncles are replaced by teenage hangouts, retirement homes and the quiet apartments of the middle-aged. Opportunities for young men to mingle with older women have greatly diminished. They don't have much faith in each other. As I was lucky enough to grow up in what was still an integrated society, I have the extravagant notion that my recollections may bring about a better understanding of the truth that men and women have a great deal in common even if they were born years apart - and may thereby stimulate a broader intercourse between the generations. As I'm going to describe my own experiences, I ought to reassure the reader that I don't intend to overwhelm him with my personal history. It is his curiosity about himself that I hope to stimulate. What follows is a highly selective memoir centred not so much on the personality of the narrator as on the universal predicaments of love. Still, to the extent that this book is an autobiography, I am conscious, like Thurber, of Benvenuto Cellini's stern dictum that a man should be at least forty years old and have accomplished something of excellence before setting down the story of his life. I don't fulfil either of these conditions. But, as Thurber says, "Nowadays, nobody who has a typewriter pays any attention to the old master's quaint rules." Andras Vajda Associate Professor Department of Philosophy The University of Michigan (NR KAT. 7)